


Pack Dynamics Among Born Werewolves

by alocalband



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Jealous Derek, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Werewolf Conferences & Conventions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-18 22:56:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8178964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alocalband/pseuds/alocalband
Summary: A Werewolf Convention AU in which both Derek and Stiles are complete nerds about supernatural politics.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and [posted to Tumblr](http://alocalband.tumblr.com/post/115357339700/im-so-ridiculously-past-the-deadline-for-this) ages ago. Inspired by the prompt: “stuck in an elevator after they’ve had a fight.”

“I’ll take the next one.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “You’re already late for your panel, just get in the damn elevator.”

Stilinski scowls at him and doesn’t move. “And you know this because your superior werewolf brain somehow memorized the entire convention schedule, huh?”

“I know this,” Derek grits his teeth, “because I was actually going to _attend_ your panel. That was until you tried to ruin mine.”

“Big words from the guy who wouldn’t let me ask my follow-up question just because I happen to be _human_.”

Derek wants to punch something. “You’re putting words in my mouth. _Again_.”

“You literally just told an audience of supernatural creatures that I was a naïve brat for even being here!”

“Fine. Take the stairs for all I care. It’ll be amusing to watch you give a lecture on the applications of mountain ash while out of breath and in a shirt you’ve sweated through.”

Stilinski’s glare is withering. But then he glances at the time on his cell phone, swears under his breath, and gets inside. The doors shut, the convention center elevator lurches into motion... and then promptly comes to an abrupt halt. “ _Mother fuck_ ,” he curses again. Derek sighs.

According to the friendly voice from out of the loudspeaker their situation will be remedied within the next ten minutes. Stilinski starts pulling at his own hair anyway. “Okay, time to shine, asshole. Let’s see all that superhuman strength that you think makes you so much better than me put to good use, and, like, claw our way out of here or something, would you?”

Derek gives him a flat look. “And then get billed for the damages? No thank you.”

“God, you are the _worst_.”

Derek clenches his hands into fists at his sides and fights very hard not to let his fangs descend.

The problem is that he _likes_ Stilinski. Or did. Had been following the guy’s blog for months, and only partly because the headshot on the sidebar makes him look like he should be modeling for certain types of werewolf-oriented skin mags.

The last thing Derek was expecting when he got his very first invitation to speak on pack dynamics among born werewolves versus bitten at the twenty-fifth annual Pacific Northwest Regional Werewolf Symposium, was to find Stilinski around nearly every fucking corner when he got there.

Derek tells himself he doesn’t care that much, knows he _shouldn’t_ care that much, but it was something of an unexpected blow to find out through as much gossip as scent that Stilinski is even more enticing in person than photos could ever do justice, is somehow always within Derek’s field of vision and yet just out of reach, and, of course, is already taken. By “defacto celebrity due to sudden True Alpha status,” Scott McCall.

It was yet another blow to have Stilinksi--Stiles, his blog says his friends call him, but Derek can’t allow himself to be so informal even in his own head right now--show up at Derek’s panel apparently looking to pick a fight.

“You won’t be that late,” Derek finds himself offering with a sigh, uncertain why he’s even bothering at this point. “It’ll just be a couple more minutes, and the coordinators have been taking too long getting people seated anyway.”

Stilinski’s eyes narrow on him, sharp and calculating. “That is the first non-douchey thing you’ve said to me all weekend.”

“If you don’t count that little shouting match back at my panel, this is the first time we’ve even _spoken_ all weekend.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Stilinski mutters.

Derek’s brow furrows in confusion. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. _I’m_ not the asshole here. You’re the one who stood up in the middle of my lecture to yell at me about xenophobic--“

“You were giving people false information!” Stiles’ cheeks are bright red with his indignation, lips shiny and wet as he sputters in his enthusiasm, and Derek has a hard time keeping up the pretense of formality anymore suddenly. “I couldn’t just sit there and listen to you badmouth diversity in packs!”

“I never-- I said it was _different_ , not that it was _wrong_. Just that the hierarchy becomes more-- more nuanced!”

“'Nuanced' meaning 'nonexistent,' right? Meaning a completely embarrassing disaster of a pack to all you born wolves, because obviously every werewolf pack should look exactly the same as every other one.”

Derek has really had enough of this. It’s been a long time since someone has been able to wind him up enough that he can feel his control start to slip and his eyes start glow, but Stiles has managed it in record time.

“Listen, just because your mate is a True Alpha doesn’t make you the authority on--” Derek starts, only to be interrupted by Stiles continuing his tirade like Derek hadn’t even spoken.

“God, you’re impossible. Like, okay, I get that your family has a long history of--“ But then Stiles stops short with an aborted flail akin to a double take. “Wait, what? Mate?”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Too pro-werewolf a term for you? Of course it is. Fine. Boyfriend. Partner. Whatever you like to call yourselves.”

“Uh, I like to call us best bros usually, but I also usually don’t need to clarify the nature of our relationship for dickbag werewolf extremists.”

Derek blinks, caught off guard. Stiles... _isn’t_ with McCall? What? “I’m not an extremist,” he says lamely, for lack of anything better that won’t give away his current emotional state. Of which he’s not even sure he knows how to interpret himself.

Stiles scoffs. “You basically called me an abomination in front of a crowded auditorium just because I’m the only human in my pack.”

“I never said that. I said that in a traditional--”

“Yeah yeah, a traditional pack hierarchy doesn’t like worthless humans mucking up the works.”

Derek practically growls in frustration, voice nearly at a yell, “God damn it, _in a traditional pack structure you’d be the second in command!_ ”

Stiles chokes for a second and then just stands there staring, mouth agape. Derek breathes in deep through his nose and averts his eyes because Stiles with his lips parted is not something he can deal with when he’s at the height of control, let alone when he feels like he’s just come out the other side of a particularly rough full moon.

“I thought you were just here as your alpha’s boyfriend,” he continues, forcing a steady calm into his voice that he definitely doesn’t feel in his constricting chest. “I thought you were Scott McCall’s arm candy. That you weren’t being... _appreciated_ for how important you could be in a pack. That’s why I called you naïve. I mean, Christ, the only panel you’re running at this conference is on _mountain ash_ when you could be in charge of this entire damn weekend if you wanted.”

Derek glances up briefly through his eyelashes to find Stiles gazing at the wall over Derek’s shoulder, looking dizzy. When he finally turns back to meet Derek’s eyes, he doesn’t look any less out of it. “You think I’m arm candy material?” he asks dumbly.

Derek can’t help the small smirk that crosses his lips. “I think that you should probably already have some idea of what you look like to werewolves just based on all the rude comments on your blog posts.”

Stiles’ mouth hangs open even wider, which should not be possible and is about to lead to Derek doing something very stupid any second now. _“You read my blog?”_

Derek can feel the tips of his ears start to burn in embarrassment, but before he can dig himself any deeper the elevator lurches back to life. They both stumble at the unexpected movement, and when they right themselves they’re somehow standing a lot closer than Derek remembers.

“Uh, hi,” Stiles breathes, his face mere inches away.

“Hi,” Derek wishes he could say he didn’t sound just as breathless, but.

“So... Sorry I thought you were a speciesist asshole who I kept trying to hit on all weekend anyway?”

The elevator doors open, but neither of them move. The doors close again and the elevator starts heading back down to the lobby.

Derek swallows. “You were hitting on me?”

“Well, in so much as trying to catch your eyes from across the room and pining from afar counts as flirting.”

“What-- But I-- _Why?_ ”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Duh. You’re _Derek Hale_. I’ve read all three of your books a dozen times each and your face makes my insides do jumping jacks. Of course there was pining involved. But I figured that you weren’t interested? And then when I heard your panel I figured you were just a dick.”

“I am kind of a dick,” Derek concedes.

“Nah, you just thought I wasn’t being appreciated enough in my pack.” Stiles grins. ”I can’t wait to tell that one to Isaac. He’s gonna have a conniption.”

The elevator doors start to open on the lobby, but Derek reluctantly steps away from Stiles and quickly pushes the button for the floor they need. “You’re definitely late now, sorry.”

“I can miss the whole thing for all I care.” Stiles shrugs. “It’s about mountain ash, dude. Maybe five people are gonna show up for it and at least three of them will just be killing time before the bar opens.”

Derek stares, bemused. “I don’t understand.”

“I noticed.”

He scowls, and Stiles laughs delightedly. “I’m not doing one measly little crap panel because they didn’t offer me more, okay? I’m doing it so I have an excuse to be here and get in some field research for my dissertation without looking suspicious. It’d be super difficult to get any work done if I was busy running a whole convention at the same time.”

“Your dissertation,” Derek repeats, thinking back over the blog entries he’s read about Stiles’ field of study. “The one on--“

“On the social repercussions of the modernization of supernatural politics, yeah.”

Derek doesn’t think he’s heard anyone utter anything so sexy in his entire life.

The elevator opens up yet again, and Stiles shuffles to stand in the doorway to keep the doors at bay, nervously grabbing the back of his neck with one hand. “Anyway, I really should...” he makes an awkward gesture with his thumbs to indicate the corridor behind him.

“Yeah,” Derek nods.

“But, you know, I don’t think anyone would blame you if you wanted to come crash my panel like I did yours? Maybe pick a fight over a misunderstanding and call me a dipshit in front of a handful of complete strangers?”

There’s this glint in Stiles’ eyes that tells Derek he’s in trouble, even before he finds himself smiling wide and following the man out of the elevator.

When they get to the small meeting room where Stiles is scheduled to speak, only two people are still hanging out in the audience, one of them lying down across three chairs, and they both favor their smartphones over Stiles’ apologies and introduction.

Stiles only gets about two minutes in before Derek’s standing up from his seat in the back with a smirk to correct his pronunciation of “darach.”

Stiles smirks right back at him, big brown eyes eager and searching as they hone in on Derek’s. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize being a born werewolf came with an inherent mastery of Gaelic.”

“Well you wouldn’t, since you obviously have zero experience with born werewolves.”

Fifteen minutes later Stiles gets kicked out of his own panel, alongside Derek, when a security guard bursts in, having mistaken their back and forth shouting for an actual fight. It’s the most fun Derek’s had in years.

He’s still grinning and light-headed when they come to a stop in front of room 303 in the connecting hotel. Stiles pulls out a keycard and chews his bottom lip. “I’m just gonna grab a clean shirt. Who knew arguing ancient druidic burial customs was practically a contact sport, huh? You don’t have to come in, but maybe we could grab a drink or--”

Derek shoves forward before he can second-guess himself. He pins Stiles to the wall with a rushed, open-mouthed kiss that feels almost like a continuation of their earlier argument more than a romantic overture.

Stiles immediately gives as good as he gets, arching his whole body into it and then pulling back suddenly to tilt his head as far to the left as it will go and baring his pale, elegant throat, because the little shit knows exactly what he’s doing, doesn’t he?

Derek loses his breath for a split second. Then leans in, slowly this time, and gently nudges his nose up under Stiles’ jaw. He places a quick kiss to Stiles’ Adam’s apple, hums with closed lips into Stiles’ pulse point, and then nuzzles against Stiles’ collarbone with a whispered, “I’m afraid if we both go in there, neither of us will be leaving for a very long time.”

The hand Stiles has resting on Derek’s back involuntarily grips Derek’s shirt in a sudden, tight fist. “I’m not exactly opposed to that.”

Derek has no idea how they even make it inside the room after that, let alone to the bed. But then suddenly he’s laid out beneath Stiles, not a stitch of clothing between them, and everything feels so right that Derek doesn’t have the words for it.

Stiles ducks down to briefly mouth at the head of Derek’s dick, then pulls back up and grins wickedly. “I can’t decide if I want to blow you or ride you.”

Derek groans and feels his toes curl at the mere thought of either option. “Consider us even then. I can’t decide if I want to shut you up with my mouth or my cock.”

Stiles’ cheeks go ruddy and the heady arousal in his scent skyrockets. “Both,” he stutters. “Yeah, uh, both is good.”

Rearranging his limbs into a more comfortable position, Stiles carefully sucks the head of Derek’s cock back into his mouth so that it rests just inside his hot, plush lips, and then he pulls Derek’s hand back until Derek is pressing the flat of his palm against Stiles’ ass.

Derek almost wants to cry at just the _potential_ of sensation, at the slow teasing promise of more. The moment he relaxes his hand enough to draw a couple of fingers down between Stiles’ ass cheeks, catching on his rim, Stiles moans loudly and takes Derek further into his mouth.

Derek pulls his hand away and Stiles whines, but then hums in approval when Derek wraps that same hand around his own dick so that Stiles’ mouth has to open wider and wet Derek’s fingers too as he swallows around it all.

A few thrusts more and Derek pulls his hand away again. Uses the saliva now dripping from his fingers to tease circles into Stiles’ rim. Uses his other hand to jack Stiles off in time to Stiles’ bobbing head. It’s all over quick enough to practically be embarrassing if they both weren’t panting and staring at each other like the other hung the fucking moon at the end of it.

“I have to admit,” Stiles says idly in the afterglow, tracing his fingertips up and down Derek’s sternum, “this was a whole lot more fun than typing up notes for my dissertation all night.”

Derek huffs his agreement, catches Stiles’ wandering fingers in his hand and brings them up to his mouth to kiss.

“Though it’s probably a good thing that I have a couple other conventions lined up for the same purpose, since I literally got nothing done today.” Stiles smirks a little, but it’s small and affectionate, his gaze tracking where Derek’s lips are now ghosting over Stiles’ knuckles. “Of course, if I cut out the lousy panels I’m doing at them, I’d have even more time to work. Thanks to you I’m now thinking it might be easier all around just to go as ‘Scott McCall’s mate.’”

A low growl rumbles up from Derek’s chest before he’s even aware of it.

Stiles cackles in glee. But then bites the insides of his cheeks and rests his chin on Derek’s chest to look at him with just a hint of trepidation in his eyes. “Or I could go as yours. You know, whatever works.”

Derek’s breath catches. “No other convention has invited me to speak yet.”

“I could pull a few strings. I _am_ the under-appreciated second in command to a True Alpha, after all. I’ve been told I have some pull at these kind of events.”

Derek rolls them over until he’s got Stiles’ face bracketed between his cradled arms. He mulls over his words for a second while carding his fingers through Stiles’ soft, messy hair. “I won’t go easy on you,” he finally says.

Stiles snorts. “I don’t think either of us would be here right now if we were a fan of ‘easy.’”

“And I can’t promise I’ll be anything close to what you imagine me to be.”

“Funny enough, I can’t promise that either.”

“But I’ll be yours if you want me to.”

Stiles bites back a smile, his heartbeat crescendoing. “I want.”

Derek grins back at him and falls down to nuzzle into his chest. “Your Gaelic is still atrocious.”

Stiles sputters, but locks his arms around Derek’s waist to make sure he doesn’t go anywhere. “Your everything is atrocious, shut up.”

“Never,” Derek whispers into Stiles neck. And when he feel Stiles breathe a barely audible, “right back at ya, big guy,” into Derek’s cheek, something once painful in his ribcage starts to settle. In an ironic twist of fate, that animal side of himself that has always felt caught in an enclosed space he’ll never break out of, now feels suddenly free after having been actually trapped in an enclosed space with Stiles Stiliniski.

Derek presses a smile into Stiles’ skin and allows himself to be happy.


End file.
